


Bloodlines

by Riftwalker



Category: Warcraft, World of Warcraft
Genre: Mists of Pandaria, Pandaria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riftwalker/pseuds/Riftwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t let me interrupt you,” the dragon said clearly, his voice strong and silken. Kathryn blinked. She’d seen many a thing in her nineteen years, but a dragon whelp, not to mention a talking dragon whelp was not one of those things. For once in her life, she had absolutely no idea what to do next. Uncertainly, she glanced at the orc, only to find golden eyes staring just as uncertainly back at her.</p><p>“Well go on, fight,” the dragon prodded expectantly. “I know you want to. It’s in your blood.”</p><p>(Left and Right never had an origin story. So I decided to give them one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodlines

_It wasn’t supposed to end like this..._

The wave sent her overboard, crashing into the unwelcome arms of the sea. It was all she could think as she struggled for air – it wasn’t supposed to end like this. Not in the middle of a war-torn ocean, not without purpose, not with water tumbling in her ears, muffling her hearing, filling her lungs ...

 

_“You’ll write, won’t you?” her father asked. She lifted the heavy sack carrying her belongings over her shoulder and looked up at him, amused to see for the first time in her nineteen years a hint of worry in her father’s eyes._

_“Of course I will. I can’t imagine Stormwind’s navy being so unkind as to refuse new recruits a letter home every now and again,” she chuckled, but only for a moment before her breath left her, swept into her father’s arms in a crushing hug. He held her tight for a long moment before awkwardly patting her back, pulling away._

_“From your mother,” he explained, but the tear in one eye told her the hug wasn’t just from her mother._

_“Da...don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”_

_“I know. The sea’s in your blood, after all. What could the ocean do to a fine strong lass like you?” He grinned then, the tear forgotten for now. “Off with you – best not keep the ship waiting.”_

_Kathryn bit her lip, a sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Love you, da.”_

_“Love you too, my girl. I’ll send your love to your mother as well. I’d tell you to make us proud, but I already know you will.” He gave her a wink, the weathered, tanned skin around his eyes wrinkling as it always did when he smiled._

_And with that, Kathryn Falmore strode the length of Theramore’s docks to embrace her destiny, whatever that may be._

 

What could the ocean do, her father had said – well at the moment, it was dead set on killing her, she thought grimly. Soaked through and through, her fingers found hope in a piece of wreckage floating in the water. Kathryn clung to the board for dear life, her mind flashing back to that day in Theramore. If she’d known then that it was the last time she’d see her mother and father, she might have said something more. Another sentence or two, another hug, a goodbye, a ... something. Something with _meaning_.

The sea darkened, and Kathryn looked up in time to see a wall of water rolling overhead, suspended in air for one breathtaking instant before crashing down. For a moment, the world passed in slow motion, the torrent of angry saltwater nothing more than the gentle fall of rain, and then all was darkness.

 

 

Kathryn Falmore awoke with a mouthful of sand and lungs full of seawater quickly expended on the tranquil shore. Choking, gagging, but very much alive, for which she supposed she ought to be thankful. Unless of course she’d merely delayed her death for a death of another, longer kind, she thought, grimly scanning the surroundings for any other survivors. None were found, the beach empty, the jungle ahead an unfamiliar and welcoming shade of jade. Cautiously, she got to her feet. Bruised, battered perhaps, a little sore, but very much alive. The sun was inappropriately beautiful as it lit the morning sky. The soft and cheerful piping of birds filled the air. On any other occasion, she might have appreciated it.

“Well then,” she murmured to herself as she made her way into the forest. “...looks like that survival training will come in handy after all.”

The dense forest even _smelled_ green. Considering her options, she began gathering wood. A fire to dry out her clothes. Then, food. Then ... then she was uncertain. But her instincts had never steered her wrong before. She’d think of something – although the strangeness of the jungle sent a chill up her spine. Where _was_ she?

The crackle of the fire was comforting, the warmth even more so. Thankfully, she still had her knife, though her sword was gone – lost somewhere at sea, more likely than not. But the little knife was enough to whittle a hook of bamboo, another piece cut to serve as rod, and a strong length of vine in place of string for an impromptu fishing pole. The storm had left the fish hungry, and soon enough, she had one gutted and propped over the fire, her stomach growling at the smell of breakfast.

Fire and food taken care of, Kathryn pulled the fish from the fire. Now it was time to address the now what – and there didn’t seem to be many options on that front. Restless, she strode up and down the beach, looking out to sea for the hundredth time as she ate, desperately searching for some sign of a boat. Wreckage. Life. But none was found. Belly full, she considered her options. If she built a bigger fire, a ship passing by might see. And then there was the jungle behind her – full of unexplored danger, but possibly a friendly face or two as well. The birds seemed to enjoy it-

Kathryn suddenly stilled as she realized the birds were no longer singing.

A howl pierced the silence as she was abruptly knocked off her feet. Instinct kicked in and she quickly ducked into a roll, bouncing back up to face her attacker. Feral, gold-flecked eyes met her own, and narrowed.

An orc. Just her luck. An orc woman, one who was apparently no better off than Kathryn was, heavy red leathers shredded in tatters. She leapt again with startling grace and speed, snarling at the human woman and shooting a fist at a face that was no longer there. Whirling, the orc grunted as Kathryn’s fist slammed squarely into her heavyset jaw. A step back, two, three, oh those golden eyes watched her carefully. Calculating, Kathryn figured, and she was right, just in time to dodge another blow, throw another punch.

She set her jaw, shifting her stance. If the orc wanted a fight, she’d certainly come to the right place.

Another ear-piercing cry warned her of the attack to follow, but instead of a fist thrown, the orc simply lunged at Kathryn, throwing her back into the bonfire. Hot coals scattered across the sand as she rolled out of it and leapt back to her feet. A sailor’s daughter through and through, Kathryn was well acquainted with brawls, and wasn’t about to let the intruder get the best of her.

But before either could throw another punch, the rough flutter of leathery wings broke the silence. Startled, both women darted a glance at the forest’s edge. From the sky above, a black dragon whelp fluttered down to settle on a nearby rock, inexplicably watching the two women with what could only be interpreted as keen interest. And for a moment, the two simply stared, bewildered at the unexpected intrusion.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” the dragon said clearly, his voice strong and silken. Kathryn blinked. She’d seen many a thing in her nineteen years, but a dragon whelp, not to mention a _talking_ dragon whelp was not one of those things. For once in her life, she had absolutely no idea what to do next. Uncertainly, she glanced at the orc, only to find golden eyes staring just as uncertainly back at her.

“Well go on, fight,” he prodded expectantly. “I know you want to. It’s in your _blood_.”

“Who are you?” the orc demanded, finally using her voice for something other than grunts and angry howls.

“It doesn’t matter.” He didn't seem at all concerned about the orc's anger. Didn't flinch when she spoke, just sat there, cool and calm. Almost as if he were amused, Kathryn noted with a narrowing of her eyes. The dragon turned his unnerving gaze to her, sweeping his eyes over her almost as if sizing her up. “You. From Theramore, are you not? That one’s people destroyed your city. Fight her.”

The orc drew herself up to her full height, growling low in her throat. “I am not in the business of fighting for the pleasure of others.”

The dragon’s reddened eyes darted back to the orc. “Maybe you aren’t. But how many of your clan have been killed by humans like her? How much injustice has been doled out to your people, simply for having the audacity of wanting to survive?"

Kathryn stared, incredulous. "You...you can't possibly be _serious_." Was he actually trying to justify that...monster?

"How many nights have your kin gone to bed hungry, lacking in basic necessities that the Alliance hoards for themselves?" The orc turned cold, calculating eyes on Kathryn as the dragon continued on. "Why, it's no wonder your people destroyed Theramore, is it? Those people _deserved_ it for takin-“

Before he could say any more, Kathryn flung herself at the orc and threw another satisfying punch at the woman’s face.

“Excellent!” the dragon cheerfully commented to no one in particular, hunkering down on the rock, his eyes glittering scarlet as he watched.

The orc staggered back, bared her tusks at the human in a silent snarl as she adjusted her stance and clenched her fists. It seemed the dragon would get his wish.

Several hours later, both women struggled to remain standing, breathless and covered in cuts and bruises equally dealt in kind. Kathryn tensed herself for another blow, but it didn’t come. The orc held up a hand, panting and apparently just as out of breath as she was. “Enough,” she growled.

Kathryn paused. This was as unexpected as the dragon’s speech, which suddenly cut through the tranquil beach like a knife.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Finish her,” he petulantly demanded.

“No.” Kathryn held up her hand, a mirror to the orc’s own. “...I...have had enough of fighting for today.”

“And I as well,” the orc responded, shooting the dragon a glare. “-especially at the expense of others.”

“But you hate each other! Look at you! Both proud, strong, beating each other senseless. Why would you stop?” He glanced back and forth between the two, perplexed. The velvet and self-assured lilt to his voice was now so blatantly puzzled that Kathryn might have laughed, had she not been so exhausted. As it was, she was struggling to come up with a reasonable answer to his question, beyond simply being _tired_.

“She is a warrior, as am I.”

Kathryn blinked, staring at the orc with open-mouthed astonishment even as the woman continued to speak. “A worthy opponent that matched me blow for blow. Were I on the battlefield, I might fear for my life.” The orc gave Kathryn a respectful incline of her chin. “She has well earned her life, for today.”

“And tomorrow?” the dragon trilled imperiously.

“Tomorrow will be another day,” the orc conceded. “A day on which I may or may not wish to fight.”

Having finally gathered her breath, Kathryn shot the orc a glare. “-I’m not your _friend_.”

“No.” The orc folded her arms. “Nor am I yours. But it seems that whether we wish it or not, our paths have crossed, and we share a similar fate. I do not wish to spend my last days on this world punching a woman without cause.”

Kathryn shifted her own stance to mirror the orc, uncertainty still plucking at the base of her neck. “Then what _do_ you want?” 

“Food.” The orc glanced at the cooled ashes of the bonfire. Kathryn’s stomach growled at the mention of it, the fish she’d eaten hours ago a fond and familiar memory. The two locked eyes, suddenly finding themselves at a standstill.

“Perhaps I can offer another solution,” the dragon uttered suddenly. He stared at the two of them, calculating.

“What could you possibly offer-“ Kathryn’s question abruptly stalled out as the dragon transformed in a puff of smoke. Where once had been a whelp, now stood a young man dressed in finery befitting a royal. He smiled, then, which would have been a curiously unnerving thing even without the presence of sharpened teeth, offering both women a gracious bow.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wrathion, last of the black dragonflight. And I do believe I have a far better alternative to standing on a beach thinking over a nonexistent menu ... if you’re interested?”

Kathryn shot a wary glance at the orc. The orc shrugged. With a heavy sigh, she turned back to the young man – _dragon_ , she reminded herself sternly, and looked him over. “What did you have in mind?”

“You’re both strong. Very strong indeed. Traveling the wilds of this unknown jungle is dangerous. Treacherous, even, for a young Prince such as myself,” Wrathion preened. “...you will be my bodyguards. I will provide you with food, shelter, and a purpose, something which neither of you presently seem to have.”

“Purpose?” the orc asked.

“The most noble purpose of them all,” he replied. “You will be my left hand.” He directed this at the orc, then shot a glance at Kathryn. “And you, my right. Together, we embark on a journey that will change the course of history as we know it.”

Kathryn considered this for a long moment, thinking carefully upon the beach, the sea, the absence of anything familiar, and the singularly ridiculous notion of following a black dragon into unknown jungle.

“...it’s better than starving,” she agreed with a shrug. The orc didn't look at either of them, jaw set and lost in thought as she contemplated the beach. After a long moment, she wordlessly nodded her agreement as well.

“I’m Kathryn-”

“No no, my dear,” Wrathion purred. “You are Right.” With that, he turned away, not bothering to wait and see if either one would follow. The orc gave the beach another long look, then turned to follow in silence.

Just so. With little left to do but exactly what the dragon wanted, Kathryn Falmore strode into the jungle, leaving her name behind on the deserted beach.

 

 

As the weeks passed, the dragon led the way through the continent he identified as Pandaria. She’d thought it but a legend - her father told her tall tales of the place when she was little - yet there they were, walking well-worn paths used by the pandaren every day for thousands of years. The natives were friendly enough, welcoming, offering food and a place to rest as they made their way to ... she didn’t know where, exactly, but Wrathion seemed to know the way. He knew many things.

She shivered as she remembered the vision he’d shared with both of them, a vision that made Kathryn – Right, she silently corrected herself – tremble, the unsettling sight sending icy, unseen fingers on a crawl up the back of her neck. Her world, the world the two women shared, extinguished in flame. And whatever disagreements, arguments, or brawls they might have considered abruptly snuffed out of existence as well.

It was enough to keep her at Wrathion’s side. Partially because yes, he was petulant, rude, impossibly arrogant beyond measure, but he had a plan for the world, a plan that inexplicably included her. And partially because it seemed as though once she’d fallen off that ship and into the sea, the world seemed to be conspiring to place her in as fantastical a situation as she could possibly imagine. At the very least, what Wrathion showed them both rang with far more sobering reality than anything else she’d encountered since.

If Wrathion expected the two to become friends, he was wrong – but there was a grudging, shared and silent agreement between them, one that inexplicably kept them from coming to blows. And Right had to admit, the more he spoke, the more he made sense. The ceaseless fighting between Alliance and Horde had begun when she was but a child. It was all she had ever known, moments of peace interrupted by periods of fighting. More often than not, the fighting outweighed the moments of peace. Lady Proudmoore had done her best by the people of Theramore, but even in her best hours she couldn’t halt the tides of war. Even in her best hours, she couldn’t save Theramore. She couldn’t save Ka—Right’s parents. Her friends. The people she’d known all her life.

She couldn’t blame Lady Proudmoore for that, though. She could blame the Horde; of course she could blame the Horde. They’d always blamed the Horde. She’d grown _up_ blaming the Horde.

It was one thing to blame the Horde – it was an entity, it was a monstrous sea of green faces, fangs bared and ready to tear into anyone and anything without reason. It was quite another thing to be confronted by just one green face day after day, a green face that watched her on occasion with – possibly warranted – wary regard, but never attacked. Not since that first day on the beach.

And she was tired, Right slowly realized as the weeks went on, of blaming people. Of fighting a battle she’d been born into, one she scarcely understood. A battle that would continue on long after she left this world by whatever means fate had in store. A battle that wore at the eyes of her father when he thought she wasn’t looking. A battle that weighed down the light heart of her mother, spoken of in hushed, late night conversations between both parents when they thought she couldn’t hear.

Somewhere in her heart she suspected her parents, wherever they were now, were tired of that battle too.

 

 

It was early morning, the sun just breaking over the hills atop the overlook the pandaren called Mason’s Folly, when the curious trio reached their destination at last. Right stared, awestruck at the lush jungle, a carpet of jade laid bare below. Left – Right assumed that the orc had another name, one that she too left behind on that sandy beach, but Left had never mentioned it – gazed in rapt wonder at the view as well, her harsh featured softened into an expression of serene contemplation. Between the two stood Wrathion, looking exceptionally pleased with himself. As he often did.

He grinned, teeth unnaturally white in the early light of dawn. “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked the two women, sweeping a hand at the lush jungle before them and preparing, Right was certain, for another in a long line of grand speeches he’d delivered to the two of them.

“Destiny,” Left snorted, “Is a fool’s excuse for failure.”

Wrathion gave the orc a sharp look. “I think I like it better when you _don’t_ talk.”

Right bit back a laugh, looked to Left. Both fell silent, following Wrathion as he stalked away, each largely unwilling to test what the wrath of a dragon was like, even if he was, as he stated, only two.

 

 

Slowly, the travelers began to arrive. With every new visitor, Left and Right stood tall at Wrathion’s side, watching each self-proclaimed “hero” with wary eyes, coiled snakes poised to strike at a moment’s notice. Some, like Left and Right, chose to stay in Wrathion’s service after hearing the tale of the horrific vision he’d seen. Others chose to move on, vowing to return when at last they finished whatever tasks on which they’d been sent. Those that remained behind were filled in further of the Prince’s plans, sent on missions to gather information from both Alliance and Horde. Never interact, Wrathion told them. Never engage. Simply observe, and report what you find to me.

Whatever information returned to Wrathion’s ears never seemed to make any sense to Right. Boring, commonplace conversations held between locals were carefully repeated for the dragon, who devoured every word with endless, rapt fascination. Far more interesting were the reports of locations Right had never seen, eagerly absorbed by the Prince as well. He kept long hours; awake as much as possible, waiting to greet the next visitor to walk through the door as if he owned the place himself.

The tavern was small but cozy, with enough space for sleeping when time permitted. Tong, the actual owner of the establishment, was a gracious enough host - and he possessed an endless patience, a calm serenity so pervasive that it almost seemed to envelop the building like a blanket. Right sometimes wondered if that was the reason Wrathion was mostly calm, even when the information he recovered wasn't quite what he was looking for. Once, as Wrathion launched yet again into another greeting, Right caught the pandaren silently reciting the black dragon’s words right along with him. His eyes met with hers, and he offered her a sly, inconspicuous wink before turning to fetch Wrathion yet another drink. It was the closest thing to conversation they'd ever shared.

Most days were spent in silence. And at night, when Right was released from her duties, she often found herself back at Mason’s Folly, pondering destiny, what it meant, and whether she believed in it at all.

 

 

“I was at Theramore.” Left dropped the sentence with no warning, preamble, or even a hello, taking a seat along the overlook next to her. Right gave her a sharp look in response, but the orc waved a hand, her usually hardened features curiously gentle, for once.

“It was foolish, what happened there. Hellscream wasted many Horde lives in his little display of dominance. Good Horde lives. Those that I called brother and sister on the battlefield, time and again.” She spat, abruptly, the hardness returning, the now-familiar snarl curling her lip. “...I swore my allegiance to the Horde. To Warchief Thrall. Hellscream made a mockery of the Horde I knew. He dishonored allegiances forged long before he came into power.”

“...but you’re an orc.” Right shifted on the cold stone, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I am. Yet my blood does not make me a killer of innocents.” She refused to look at Right, staring straight ahead. “There was no honor in Theramore, that day. There is no honor in slaughter.”

“No.” Right replied quietly. “...no, I don’t suppose there is.” It wasn't what she expected to hear from the Horde - from the monstrous sea of green faces. But there were rumors. Wrathion's agents trickled in from here and there, painting a picture of the Horde that wasn't a monstrous sea so much as a tumultuous one. Whatever the Horde was, it wasn't united, not anymore. And if one side was dead set on murdering her kind, then the other... “You heard them, earlier. Talking about the rebellion.” The question didn’t seem to affect Left in the slightest. She grunted a noncommittal agreement, returning to her usual state of silence. But Right persisted, puzzled. “Then why haven’t you gone to join them, if you hate Hellscream so?”

Left favored her with a golden-eyed, level stare. “Why haven’t you rejoined your Alliance kin?”

Right fell silent in the face of the one question she hadn't asked herself, hadn't wanted to ask. At first, when the Alliance slowly began trickling through the narrow pass, she thought herself lucky that no one seemed to recognize her. And as the weeks went on and the people continued to trickle in and out without recognition, she realized why. The men and women she'd trained with in the military were all gone, lost at sea. And those that survived Theramore...Right glanced up at the stars, willing away a sudden prick of tears. The people that had gotten out were those that weren't fit for fighting. They'd been evacuated. They weren't the kind of people to join the military, to travel to unexplored continents across the sea. The fighters, the people that refused to give way, the ones that refused to ever stand down...they were gone. Little wonder no one recognized her. It was likely there was no one left in the world who would.

“...I think,” she slowly began, “...I think that sometimes, the farther away you are from something, the more clearly you begin to see it.”

Left snorted at that, but let the woman continue.

“The pandaren like to ask why we fight. At first the answer was easy – my home was destroyed. My parents...my friends...everyone I knew. All while I was away.” Right shook her head. “Away fighting, even then.”

“It is the wrong question.” Left stated. Right shot her a bewildered glance. “You are not fighting,” Left pointed out. “Why do you _not_ fight?”

“Because it’s not my war,” Right softly replied. “I think....sometimes I think that it was never our battle at all. It started before I was born and just kept going, and we were expected to go right along with it. Both you and I. Just as _he_ expected us to follow him. And we did, because ... because we had to follow something. It was all we knew.”

Left snorted again. “I fight for the Horde.”

“You don’t _now_ ,” Right pointed out.

“I do not choose to at this time.”

“...and why is that?”

Left glared at the forest below. “It seems, once again, that we share a similar fate.”

Right smiled at that. “It seems we do.”

The orc abruptly rose to her feet, took a few steps towards the tavern, then stopped, fixing Right with a level, gold-flecked stare. “Do not think that this makes us friends, human. We are allies, for now. I may follow the Prince as you do, but my heart still beats for the Horde.”

“...don’t let _him_ hear you say that.”

And for the first time since she’d met her, Left smiled. “I am an orc. I am not _stupid_.”

 

 

“He _what_?!” Wrathion hissed. Though still in the humanoid form of an elegant prince, he bore more resemblance to his draconic roots at that precise moment, and whatever calm serenity Tong had managed to previously foster in the tavern was now conspicuously absent. Right glanced at Left, who continued to stare straight ahead as the messenger swallowed nervously and continued his tale. King Varian Wrynn had not destroyed the Horde. He had let them go, instead choosing to imprison Hellscream, to hold a trial for the Warchief, to mete out punishment for his crimes.

It was, Right thought to herself, inevitable, really. The Alliance sense of justice, of honor, was one that had carried on for years before her birth, and would carry on for years after her demise. Perhaps it was foolish to some – but a soldier never gutted an infant after its parents were killed in battle. And perhaps this new Horde would remember that moment of mercy, grow into something more than its barbaric predecessor. It wasn't unreasonable to consider, not when Left had been...not kind, not necessarily, but not _unkind_ , either. If one green face in a sea of supposedly monstrous faces could end up like her, was it too difficult to imagine that others could be the same?

Wrathion kicked a table over, the cups – Tong’s cups, Right sadly noted – crashing in a cascade of delicately colored glass. “Get... _out_ ,” he snarled at the messenger, who hastily did as he was told. A wise decision, Right thought to herself. She’d never seen Wrathion truly angry, not once in her months of service – and she didn’t really care to begin just now. As the Prince fumed, Right cleared her throat.

“Forgive me for asking, but ... isn’t that what you wanted?” Left gave Right a sharp look and a warning shake of her head. She ignored it and took a tentative step forward instead. “Unification, I mean? The Alliance may not have conquered, but they no longer fight with the Horde, either. Isn’t ... isn’t that better than crushing one side for the advantage of the other? Now you have twice the army you thought you’d have when all this was done.”

Wrathion turned his eyes on her, sharpened daggers of condescending fury, and she instantly regretted her decision to speak. “Oh, of course,” he simpered, “Now they will simply play _nice_.”

Right blinked in confusion. "Well...haven't Left and I-" The reply was abruptly cut off by his hand cracking sharply across her jaw and sending her sprawling to the floor.

“Idiot! Can’t you see? Don’t you understand? You will always fight. _Always_. It is in your _blood_.” He jabbed a finger in Left’s direction. “You think she is your _friend_? If I were not here, if I had not taken you in, she would slit your throat in an instant—“

“No.”

Wrathion’s nostrils flared at the interruption, even as Left stepped forward to help Right from the floor, eyes glinting and golden, fearless and unwavering, pinned solely on him.

“You _dare_ -“

“-we are not _friends_ ,” Left continued, interrupting the Prince a second time. “But I would not kill one such as her. She is strong. Honorable. A warrior worth my _respect_.” Fierce, golden eyes turned to Right, green hand lifted to touch her reddened cheek. “I am an orc. I am not a murderer without cause. And in her, there is none.”

The Black Prince darted his eyes from one to the other. “Out,” he hissed. “Out – out! Both of you. Out of my sight!”

The two women strode out the door, but his voice carried after them both.

“And don’t go far. This may not have ended as expected, but our journey is far from _over_.”

Right and Left exchanged twin glances. Destiny, as it seemed, was in fact a perpetual forward motion that neither could escape.

“Do you think we should go?” Right asked, once they’d reached the now familiar perch atop the hill, as close a thing to home as anything in Pandaria ever was. From far below, they could hear the dragon's tirade continue, echoing through the narrow pass.

Left shrugged. “He is willful. Arrogant. Prideful. Yet he holds this world precious. As do I.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” Right peered out at the lush jungles below Mason’s Folly, the wind toying with her hair. “He’s a spiteful little thing, but he’s the only creature I’ve met that’s more concerned about the world we stand on than the people on it.”

“People like you and I?”

“Well, you and I wouldn’t matter much, the Alliance and Horde wouldn’t matter much, none of it would matter much at all if we didn’t have the ground beneath us, would it?”

Left couldn’t really argue with that, as she felt the same way.

 

 

 

Several hours later, Wrathion glared at nothing at all, Tong’s final words echoing in his ears. Snarling at the sky, he tensed as if poised to attack – but his irritation had no target. In frustration, he unleashed another column of flame from his mouth, watching it dissipate in the evening sky with furious resolve. “I will _not_ have my plans so carelessly tossed aside! Mortals ... weak. I should have known-“

A voice, low and liquid, velvet over steel caught his attention. “It was doomed to failure. You trusted in those who have their own destinies to consider, forgot they possess free will, stubborn resolve.”

“Next time-“ Wrathion spat, but the voice interrupted him.

“-next time, you will crush them underfoot. You will impose your will upon them, cleave them to your version of destiny, as so many have before you .”

“I...am not one of _them_ ,” the Prince replied unsteadily, calming at once.

The dark voice chuckled. “You think to escape your fate? You are of the black dragonflight – you cannot escape what courses through your veins, no matter how you wish it so. It is in your _blood_.”

“I believe I’ve done more than enough to sever all ties-“ He rolled his eyes, irritated and growing more anxious by the second.

“-you have severed ties. You have killed your kin, scoured the world of your kind, left behind a trail of devastation in your wake. You profess your deeds for the good of Azeroth, but bear them on the blood of countless innocents, killed without care. And in that,” the voice purred dangerously, proudly, “-you are every inch my son.”

Wrathion went pale, fixing his gaze to a distant star, his voice calm despite the icy lance that suddenly crept up his spine. “And you are dead,” he replied.

“I am,” the voice agreed with another hateful laugh. “And you put me in the ground. Yet, if you lack your bloodline’s madness as you say ... why then, do you speak to one who no longer exists?”

With that, the voice was gone, an echo of silken laughter rippling in his ears. And as the Black Prince stared at the world he was so desperate to protect, he found himself with no answer to give.

 

 


End file.
